A Scorched Ire
by outside the crayon box
Summary: The Wizarding world again descends into havoc. Groups of fanatical idealists strive to overthrow the Ministry of Magic, with the goal of segregating Purebloods and Muggleborns once and for all. The Death Eaters are trying anew to slaughter any last Muggles who think they have a chance. The Order of the Phoenix has collapsed. The Statue of Secrecy is threatened. This is terror.
1. unus

_although this story was put together by me, it is based on the scorched ire forum, which is headed by **the unwritten vacancy**. the following is the list of people who posted in the forum and thereby co-wrote this story:_

**_- the unwritten vacancy  
>- riseha<br>- galesynch  
>- outside the crayon box<br>- giselle satomi  
>- urau<br>- angelic fluffle  
>- delusionalfun<br>- he-who-shall-live  
>- chase 'a' winter<em>**

_please read, review, and i hope you enjoy!_

_~ joyana ~_

* * *

><p>It has been said that a person's personality and actions are dependent upon the soul they receive, but Angelo Vance knew differently.<p>

If, per say, someone looked in the mirror at this second, what would they see? Perhaps a tiny scar, unnoticeable but to the one who owned it, protruding from the corner of the lip? Possibly the newly formed crinkles in their forehead? Maybe the twisted tissues on the mouth were formed during a particularly harsh argument with a younger brother, and the recently created wrinkles were the result of being a forty nine year old mother of a newborn fifth child.

Humans were not their souls. Humans were their experiences. Take a person's background away, and they would be nothing more than plain clay awaiting a talented sculptor.

In other words, everyone was the same, until the day comes that they were not.

As Mr. Vance gazed upon the weary face of his boss, he wondered what gruesome trials the man must have faced to gain such a dismal air.

Mr. Browne's entire being radiated sorrow, from his pale eyes to the droop of his feathering lips. His glasses were perched precariously on his nose, threatening to slip to the ground and shatter any second. But even though he appeared weak, he had not given up.

The glasses, however, were surprising. Mr. Vance, who had never met this particular superior of his, was mildly surprised to see them. In this day and age, it was highly uncommon for a wizard, especially a highly successful head of the Department of Mysteries, to bother himself with such petty Muggle ideas, when it was all too easy to repair one's sight with a simple flick of the wand. Mr. Vance knew that he was not one to speak, as his tastes coincided almost perfectly with the preferred style of wealthy Muggle men, but at least he had the sense to entertain his customs only when he was alone.

"Vance." The voice was low, with a strong British accent and a touch of condescension. "I welcome you, but I cannot help but wonder what follies are important enough to be brought to my attention."

The insult was nicely worded, sprinkled with enough multi-syllable words as to be confusing.

"Not follies, sir, but rumors," Mr. Vance replied, keeping his tone quiet but pleasant.

"Rumors?" Mr. Browne smirked. "Ah, but surely a man of your great capability must be aware of the unreliability of such types of remarks."

Mr. Vance pasted a smile across his cheeks, nodding acquiescently but remaining firm. "Sir, I am sure you understand that I would not be inclined to say something had these comments been nothing but falsity. However, I am afraid that it would be a mistake not to alert you that these rumors indeed hold at least a few grains of truth. You see, people are talking of a prophecy, one that was fulfilled twenty two years ago."

Mr. Browne's sightless eyes flashed, and for a split second his hands clenched into fists. "You are speaking, I presume, of the prognostication involving Harry Potter and He Who Must Not Be Named?"

"I am, sir. My fellow Unspeakables claim that they have found the prophecy seated on its original shelf, whole and undamaged. I cannot comment on the veracity of this statement, having not seen for myself the situation, but I do know for a fact that the container was destroyed barely a year before the beginning of the second Wizarding war."

"That is physically impossible," Mr. Browne declared, but his voice shook slightly. "Once annihilated or carried out, a prophecy cannot be recreated nor replaced."

"I suggest you see for yourself, sir. After all, as you know, news of new Death Eater attacks has been spreading across the nation. It may be possible that they are regrouping under a new leader, who may very well take up his former master's name in an effort to introduce a new reign of terror in the hearts of the people who never have and never will forget the war."

Mr. Browne barely concealed his contempt for the topic as he snarled, "The Death Eaters are simply not capable of returning to power, Vance. Good day to you."

Obeying the man's order for obvious dismissal without question, Mr. Vance strode towards the door to Mr. Browne's office and let himself out. As he gripped the silver knob to pull it closed behind him, a sliver of a smile snaked across the man's face. He had done what he meant to do: planted a seed of fear inside the Ministry. Soon, the people would panic, and they would be needing a new beacon of hope in dark times. Mr. Vance, along with the rest of the Order of the Phoenix, would provide that light, and gain power.

And Angelo Vance knew exactly what he was going to do with it.


	2. duo

**- -Leander- -**

Leander Harrow did not fail to see how the parents of arriving students had a sense of unease about them. Their shoulders hunched, their feet shuffling, they herded their children quickly onto the train, away from any suspicion and malice that might be hidden under a fellow wizard's robes.

The environment was just like the years preceding the second Wizarding war: eyes darted through crowds, unsure of who was friend and who was foe. The people moved quickly, not stopping to chat with old friends or new acquaintances. The air was tense.

This atmosphere was made for Leander. It was the time for subtle questions and obvious answers. It was the time for secrets to be spilled. It was the time to learn more about everyone around him. It was time for the truth.

The warm, soft arms of his aging mother wrapped around him, squeezing tightly, a silent assurance that he would be safe and successful at Hogwarts. But he could feel the nervous tremors in her body, the forced smile on her face, the fear that caused her heart to pound just a little faster than normal.

Pain and bitterness surged through Leander's veins. His own mother, the woman who had raised him, a devout Ravenclaw, was scared of her own son.

He pulled away and stiffly retrieved his trunk from where it lay at his feet, offering his mother a stiff nod before turning and boarding the Hogwarts Express.

Leander ended up in an empty compartment. Hoisting his suitcase onto the metal contraption above his head, he massaged his back and collapsed onto one of the soft seats. He wasn't sure what to think.

_It was obvious that this year would bring unforeseen changes to the Wizarding world. It was the small things, so tiny that they could escape unnoticed, that controlled fate. If an extra fraction of an ounce was placed on one side or the other, the scales would tip. It was not lost on most that this was happening right at that moment._

**- -Euphemia- -**

Euphemia Summers, as usual, was running late. She couldn't quite help herself; time had a highly obnoxious way of sneaking up on her. When she was younger, she'd used to picture time as a black, inky mass, with an undefined form, hovering above her, whispering in her ear . . . She winced. When she thought about it, it sounded more like death than time, though maybe they equated to the same thing.

"Er, miss?"

Effie blinked and looked up at the taxi driver. "Huh?"

The man narrowed his eyes before inquiring, "Is this not your step?"

"Oh," she mumbled, embarrassed. "Thank you."

Effie swung open the door and jumped out of the vehicle, making her way around to the trunk, from which she removed her luggage, nodded at the driver, and jogged inside, not hearing the man's yells that she had not paid her fare.

As she ran, she checked her watch. Five minutes. Shit.

Effie raced across King's Cross, now purposefully ignoring the driver who was chasing her, yelling something about delinquent kids and constables. Laughing lightly under her breath, she swerved around a young couple who were examining a brochure and finally caught sight of platform nine and three quarters. She knew just sprinting through the barrier was risky (what if some hawk-eyed Muggle saw?), but at this point, there wasn't a better option.

And did she even care?

Not really. Not now.

Effie raced across the platform, dragging her trunk behind her and leaping onto the train seconds before the doors smashed closed behind her. As she caught her breath, the Hogwarts Express slowly began pulling away from the station.

She strolled down the corridor. Most of the compartment doors were closed, the seats all full. The only uninhabited place she could find was at the very end of the train, right by the engine. But that was alright.

With her left foot, Effie kicked the door, which slid open to admit her. Pulling her luggage over the threshold, she settled into a chair and smiled at the prospect of a few hours all to herself.

The problem was that there was a boy already in there. He had a cold face, surrounding by sandy hair and defined by stunning dark eyes.

_What really drew Effie's attention was his green and silver tie, which fell perfectly against his black robes, the signature colors of the one house she despised._

**- -Biana- -**

_It had to be a record_, Biana Llewellyn thought as she finally excused herself and exited her compartment. She'd never lasted this long before, just sitting in one place and staring mutely out the window. Maybe there was hope for controlling her ADHD after all.

Now, however, she needed to burn off the energy of remaining in one place for an entire thirteen minutes (though it honestly could have been hours; _that_ was how much Biana loathed staying still)._  
><em>

"Do you think it's gonna be so scary?" a little boy asked of his friend.

"I don't know." The other shook his head wildly. "I just don't wanna be a Slytherin. They all look so mean."

"You _will_ die if you fail, you know," she informed the jumpy eleven year olds, whose eyes looked like they were about to pop out of their heads. "The Sorting Test is really dangerous."

The smugness in her voice satiated her, and for a second she considered heading back to her seat and making idle chit chat with the other Slytherins who were still there. But then a voice caught her attention: a decidedly familiar voice.

Biana backtracked quickly, ducking to hide behind the door and listening to the heated conversation occurring inside a compartment.

The voice was, indeed, coming from Leander Harrow, who was, hands down, the best looking boy in Slytherin, possibly in the entire school. With his pale blond hair, piercing brown eyes, and angular chin, he was gorgeous, and he knew it.

The person he was talking to was a girl, most likely smaller than Biana and definitely younger than Leander. She was standing up as tall as he could, her straight brown hair plastered to her back.

Biana smirked. Ah, something to do. She entered the compartment, closing the door quietly and singing out, "Bullying a little girl? Oh, you meanie."

_Sometimes being a bitch is all a woman's got to hold on to._


End file.
